


Faygolicious Definition: Make Terezi Loco

by iwantcandy2



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AND SHENANIGANS, Black Romance, F/M, Gift Exchange, Giftstuck, M/M, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Confusion, Secret Relationship, Secret Santa, Troll Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwantcandy2/pseuds/iwantcandy2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terezi is missing.</p>
<p>The clues: a teal splatter and a bottle of Faygo.</p>
<p>Karkat goes to confront his moirail, afraid of what he might find and what he might have to do.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Dave has to confront the ugly horrorterror that is troll romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faygolicious Definition: Make Terezi Loco

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amaranthinecanicular](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaranthinecanicular/gifts).



> Sooooooo....I wrote this for Giftstuck, but I kind of got off track on the prompt. Um, it started out as pale GamKar with some DaveKat thrown in, using GamRezi as the plot device holding the two together, but...well, it got out of hand a little. My bad.

He’s doing it again. 

He’s killing people.

At least, that’s what the sick feeling in your digestive sack tells you when you see a large teal splatter on the walls. You haven’t seen Gamzee in a perigee, haven’t even heard a honk echoing through the halls like the desperate mating call of a lonely duck. So you aren’t doing a bang-up job as moirail. That’s no excuse for him murdering the female of your confused affections.

You are terrified, worried, disappointed, devastated, anxious, nervous. Those feelings are too much, crowding your head and making it impossible to think. So instead of dealing with them, you burn them away with white anger. You’re a little mutant steam-engine, and endless rage is the force that makes you putter forth, peeking into every vent and opening every door on this horror-terror-tentacled mess of a meteor. 

What are you going to do when you find him? Visions of a mauled Terezi, her smile split from her face and her entrails forming a halo around her body, fill your mind. What the fuck are you supposed to do in a situation like that? Shoosh pap him? Tell him everything is all right, that these things happen, what is one more dead body in the endless corpse party of your life?

You can feel your anger rising up, making your movements violent with urgency. You need to fucking find that asshat, you need to find him a week ago, before this shit decided to go for the gold in doing acrobatic maneuvers off the handle. You thought everything was fine, and because of that-

“Sup, bro. Looks like you just saw your reflection in a mirror.”

Oh cruel unmerciful gog, it’s this douchebag.

“Fuck off, Strider. I’m allergic to hoofbeast shit, and you might send me into analeptic shock.”

You turn the opposite way and speedwalk like you have a stick of dynamite clenched between your asscheeks. Unfortunately, you could have broken into an all-out sprint and you wouldn’t be able to escape the Strider. He flash-steps to your side.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asks, voice syrupy like he is speaking to a wiggler. “Are you late for your assholes anonymous meeting? ‘My name is Karkat Vantas, and it has been twelve minutes since my last emotional meltdown.’”

“What part of ‘fuck off’ did you not understand?” you growl. You know you should just ignore him; it’s attention he’s after. But that’s why he enjoys heckling you: he knows you are physically incapable of shutting the hell up. You will always rise to the bait, like the universe’s most gullible fish. “When was the last time you saw Terezi?” you ask, deciding to try and turn this ass-fest into something productive.

“We were remodeling Can Town, practicing some good old-fashioned segregation. She wanted all the red cans in one place.”

“I didn’t ask _what_ you did, you half-evolved primate, I asked _when you saw her last_ ,” you clarify.

He quirks his eyebrow into a thin arch, responding, “Sixteen hours, thirty-five minutes and nineteen seconds.”

Time players.

“Thank you for the information,” you reply. “Now kindly fuck off into the darkest corner you can find.”

Dave stares at you for a couple of seconds, letting you catch a glimpse of your disheveled appearance in the flat plane of his glasses. Then he nods once and flashes away. His calm acquiescence is as unsettling as a barkbeast with two butts, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. 

You have a juggalo to hunt. 

**== >Be Dave**

If Can Town didn’t already have the bitching-est mayor ever, you would probably elect Karkat Vantas to that position, for no other reason than he is incapable of being deceptive. You can tell the little dude’s as tightly wound as double-helix DNA. And normally that shit is hilarious, but the fact that he’s got his extraterrestrial panties in a twist over Terezi = concerning. 

Because come to think of it, you _haven’t_ seen chitin hide nor greasy hair of that girl in too long. Even if you don’t see her, she has the vocal control of a cranky toddler in Mass, and you usually can’t step sideways without hearing her dulcet tones dragging down your eardrums. 

So you do what any good boyfriend/matesprit would do. You panic over her not keeping constant contact and begin hunting her down in order to assuage your possibly unwarranted fears.

Tapping into your inner Sherlock Holmes, you return to the scene of the crime: the place you last saw her. Cantown is in the middle of some urban renovation, with half the towers knocked down and a section of red cans off to one side. 

You sweep the place, searching for tell-tale traces of Terezi. Several of the cans have scratched and marred labels from her claws. That’s normal; the average troll can’t pick their nose without drawing blood. 

However, one of these things is not like the others. Amidst the cans of carrots and radishes, you spot a lone plastic cylinder, the remains of a soda sucked dry. Redpop Faygo.

As far as you know, most trolls have an aversion to Faygo, and it isn’t because the sugary syrup is a leading cause of childhood diabetes. From what you have gathered, sugar rushes : trolls :: alcoholic buzzes : humans, so Faygo is roughly the equivalent of a bottle of Jager. 

Also it might have something to do with the fact that it is the mascot drink of a religion of a bunch of hemocastist, violent, death-worshipping clowns.

You vaguely recall Terezi telling you that Karkat’s no-homo boyfriend is a member of said cult. However, you are beginning to think Gamzee is a figment of Karkat’s lonely imagination, as you haven’t ever seen him up close. One thing is sure, though. Even if there is a Faygo-swilling juggalo on board this happy train through the stars, this Redpop Faygo has Terezi marked all over it. 

You figure she’s not in danger so much as embarrassingly hammered, and has crawled off some place to nurse a sugar hangover. You owe it to Terezi as her knight-in-a-godtier-hoodie to warn her that Karkat is tearing the meteor apart looking for her, and she should probably drink some coffee or whatever home-remedy trolls have for a wild night on the town. 

Luckily, you’ve spent more time with her than one ulcer-inducing midget, so you know where she’s likely to be sulking. 

**== > Be Karkat**

Fortunately for everyone aboard this meteor, you have a vague idea of Gamzee’s hangouts. If anyone can find him, you can. Unfortunately, you are afraid of what you might find him with. Specifically a corpse. More specifically, Terezi’s. 

You make your way to the most forsaken parts of the labs. There are still test chambers here, filled with half-formed creations of varying degrees of ungodly. It’s best to walk through this portion in the absolute dark, so you don’t have to see your reflection distorted in the tubes.

You hiss as your foot lands in something wet and lukewarm. Resisting the temptation to jump around screaming, you pull your lightstick out of your sylladex and turn it on. Yes, your foot landed in a puddle. It’s hard to tell the exact color under the orange glow of the bulb, so you dip a finger in it and sniff. Yup, it has the scent of blood. At least this means you are getting close. 

Using the lighttorch, you follow the smears and splotches. They lead you down the hallway, through the maze of doors and refuse. Finally, you find what you are looking for: a nest made from discarded Faygo bottles. Gamzee couldn’t have made his hideout any clearer if he left out a welcome mat.

“Gamzee!” you screech into the darkness. On one hand, it may not be a good idea to announce your presence to a possibly homicidal clown. On the other hand, you are about as stealthy as a fart, so what does it matter? 

You approach the heap slowly. You haven’t pulled your weapons out yet, but that’s just because you couldn’t win in a fight against him. 

“Gamzee, are you there? We need to talk.”

There is a dry rustling, and your lightstick illuminates two curving horns.

“Sup, brother.”

He sounds…normal. For Gamzee, at least. No hint of guilt or distress. Then again, Gamzee has killed in cold blood before. Maybe it doesn’t bother him.

“Get out here, you sad excuse for a clown,” you order, trying to sound assured and calm. You are neither.

“Rather not,” he replies. “I just got my relax up and on. Brother has to be making with the sleep time when he up and comes across it, you know?”

“Don’t care. Get out here.”

You’d drag him out, but that would be disrespectful of his autonomy. (You aren’t scared of him turning on you like an animal gone sour with rabies. Not smiling, serene Gamzee. You still want to trust him. Still want to believe him, even with what might be Terezi’s blood drying on your hands.)

Another rustle of bottles. He pokes his head a few inches further, until his eyes show like dead fire, only hot coals left.

“Further.”

To the shoulders, hunched over his neck like a carrionbird at roost.

“Not quite.”

Sitting up, bottles falling away like the dry skin of a snake.

“Come on, all the way.”

And he rolls upward like a leer, tall enough you couldn’t kiss him on the chin. Guilt is written across his frame in the form of damp patches spattered over his shirt. You can smell the blood wafting over the Faygo perfume, sickly on sweet.

“What is this?” you demand, reaching forward and dragging him by a sleeve. “Where in sweet _fuck_ did this come from?”

He winces, and you aren’t egotistical enough to think it’s from you. (Like you could scare Gamzee. You aren’t sure what he’s afraid of, put the black pits in his soul are bound to have demons fouler than you. You’ve seen them staring out from his eyes.)

“Are you…bleeding?” you ask, pulling the shirt out and shining your light on it. 

It’s hard to tell any color distinctly; purple and teal could be the same shade of shadow down here. But even as you prod at the spots, you can feel the fresh wetness below. Yes, he is bleeding. Wordlessly, you shove him to the ground and pull the shirt over his head. He doesn’t struggle.

His body is spotted with his blood, like the hide of some beast of the jungle. You hiss in anger and root around in your sylladex, pulling up the emergency kit that was as much your crown of leadership as anything you ever did.

“The fuck happened?” you ask, pulling out skeins of gauze.

“I lost.”

Shaking your head and tutting, you proceed to anoint him with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Is Terezi okay?” you ask. You wanted to approach the matter more delicately, but your moirail (you can call him moirail again, now that he is broken, not unstoppable executer but only got-his-ass-handed-to-him friend) is bleeding the proof in front of you, so there’s no point in skirting around it.

“Teresis will live.”

“You will too, but you’d be in a lot less pain if you had come to me straight away.”

You uncork a second bottle of rubbing alcohol. The first one was treatment, but this one is punishment. You pour it over his body and rub it in with cotton swabs.

“Didn’t want to get your worry on,” he replies, still giving no sign that he even feels sixteen fluid ounces of liquid fire on his skin.

“I am your fucking moirail, you stinking, unwashed nook of a thousand whores. This is what I am fucking _for._ Did you think I would be mad that you went and picked a fight with Terezi? Because I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are an idiot and it is my job to make sure you don’t die of stupidity.”

“Didn’t start it.”

“What?” you ask, putting down your rag and looking him in the eyes.

“I didn’t up and start the blood flowing. Teresis came with a bee in her bonnet, had to make with the violence.”

“That’s…” You want to say ‘unbelievable.’ Terezi had been laughing and smiling just the other day, filled with as much righteous fury as a baby meowbeast after nap time. It had been half a sweep since…since the incident that had reduced your dysfunction junction membership by half. Why would she seek revenge now? Why would she pretend everything was fine to your face, and then swap fang marks with Gamzee behind your back?

Furious, you begin wrapping his wounds, trying to hide the mottling of bruises on his body. You try not to notice the bite marks on his neck, the places where Terezi left an imprint of her mouth with a lingering purple bruise.

“Gamzee, don’t…promise me you won’t make this a regular thing, okay? If Terezi tries to pick a fight with you again, come to me, okay?”

He grunts, and it’s about as much agreement as cold silence. You finish treating his wounds with your teeth clenched tight. As soon as the final bandage is secure, you turn to go.

“Pale for you, Karbro,” Gamzee calls, sounding casual and sincere.

“Yeah, I- I know,” you reply. “I…I’m pale for you too.”

You leave without looking back, so you won’t have to see the hickeys on his neck and the teal blood on his teeth.

**== > Be Dave**

You can hear Terezi three rooms away. She’s humming, but like everything Terezi does, it’s ten times louder than it should be. And when she finally comes into sight, she’s waving her hand like she’s leading a choir of avenging angels. Also she’s bleeding all over everything. Yeah. That’s mildly alarming.

“Hiiii _iiii_ Dave,” she coos. Yup, that is exactly what you expect a drunk chick to sound like. “You’ll never guess what I’ve been up to.”

“Does it involve taking a dip in a pool of grape jelly?” you ask, noting the globs stuck to her clothes. “Terezi, I am deeply shocked. I thought you would have gone for raspberry. You think you know a person.”

She cackles, throwing her head back and then losing her balance. She stares up at you from the floor, eyes wide and dead and grin pulled back to her ears.

“Guess who beat the religion out of a certain reclusive cultist?” she asks. Then she does that snort-giggle where she throws her head back and jerks her shoulders up and down.

“Wait, do you mean the stoner bro? Are you sure you didn’t drink too much Redpop?”

She finds that hilarious. She rolls around on the floor, letting you get a good look at the bleeding gash on the back of her head. Now you’re thinking blood loss is a more likely culprit for her slap-happiness than carbonation. You realize with horror that your girlfriend is rolling around in a puddle of blood giggling over the fact that the universe might be short one juggalo.

“Terezi. _Terezi!”_ you snap, kneeling down next to her when she continues laughing. “Look, I think you might need help. Where are you hurt?”

“Ooh, Dave, don’t flip pale on me,” she says, batting your hand away. “I’m fine. Couple of love bites, laceration on my leg, maybe a bruised rib. Heehee, you should have been there!”

“I- did you say love bites?” you ask, words momentarily failing you.

She waggles her eyebrows like a flag taken by the wind. You have the sudden urge to puke on her face. But no, that would be considered black flirting, wouldn’t it? And apparently she _has_ someone for that now. You’d hate to overstep your bounds.

You knew trolls had quadrants. Oh, you remembered Karkat rubbing his weird troll four-way porn in your face and talking about sharing Terezi, like she was an overdue library book you had to return and love was something you could switch on and off. And even then you thought black quadrants were total bullshit, that you would want to be with someone that hurt you, that you could look someone you loved in the eyes and say, “Not tonight, sweetsie pumpkin poo, I have a hate date, but if my entrails are still intact tomorrow I’ll pencil you in.” It’s even worse when you’re looking at your Terezi smiling like a hungry shark and knowing that if you guys kiss for conceivably as long as this relationship lasts, you might taste some other dude’s blood on her teeth. Oh, and this is supposed to be _normal._

“Look, I have to, um, return an overdue can to Cantown,” you say, stepping back. “But…promise me you’re okay.”

“Never been better,” she replies.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You’re glad you were raised by a half-insane puppeteering mastermind who thought emotion was anathema, because you need all that training to keep a straight face. Nope, no judgment from Dave, no trouble in paradise. He’s as chill as a pitcher of Kool-Aid. Oh yeah.

You keep an even gait for three hallways, until you’re sure you’re out of even Terezi’s hearing range. Then you break into a run.

**== > Be Karkat**

By the time you make it back to the main hub, you’re in a fine fucking mood. Which is to say you are looking for a surface to dig your claws into, preferably one that bleeds. You have been metaphorically shat on by your moirail, and literally slicked your feet in his blood. Which, coincidentally, resulted in you slipping and falling on your ass at least four times. Your blood pusher feels like it has been given to a particularly repugnant barkbeast as a toy. You are torn between finding something to destroy and curling up into a small broken ball.

“Yo, Vantas.”

Oh, wonderful. The cherry to put on your shitstorm sundae. Strider.

He walks up to you, hands in his pockets and shoulders slouched.

“So, uh, how are things?” he asks, tilting his head to one side.

What a strange fucking question. No wistful repartee, no whimsical insult. In fact, his question is almost civil, and you’ve never known him to trip over his words before.

“Wonderful,” you growl back. “I feel as radiant as the shit particles falling from a hoofbeast’s butt.”

He nods as if he both expected that answer and agrees with it.

“I feel ya, bro.”

“What?”

“Said I feel you. Did I fucking stutter?” He tilts one eyebrow, daring you to inquire further. You don’t. You’ve spent enough time immersed in trashy novels to learn how to read between the lines. So you’re not the only one who’s had their heart punched out. Big fucking whoop. That’s paradox space for you. Everyone suffers, and mutual suffering isn’t cause for mutual closeness. Like you give the bottom quartile of a greasy rodent that Strider’s had a sucky day. Like you care that he suffers same as you. Like this changes anything about your own low rung in the universe. It’s not like you’re suddenly going to bond and dance away into the sunset on a ray of-

“Look,” you say, interrupting your own thoughts. “I’ve had a bad day, okay? But that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to moisten your shoulder with tears.”

“Understandable,” he agrees.

“It’s just, well…this meteor is boring as fuck. Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

“As long as it isn’t Dane Cook.”

“I make no such promises.”

“Then the peanut gallery is open for business. Come on, bro,” he says, elbowing you and making you want to introduce some fang-shaped holes into his flesh, “let’s go commit cerebral seppuku with one of your shitty romcoms.”

“They are not shitty,” you retort, playfully-not-so-playfully punching him on the shoulder. “You just don’t have the higher brain functions to appreciate them.”

You continue in that vein, trading attacks and barbs down the hallway. It doesn’t make your problems go away. Hell, it doesn’t even make you feel better. But misery loves company, and it's nice to have a companion like Dave Strider.

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it. The clusterfuck that is meteor romance (and I didn't even touch on Rosemary! [probably because their relationship is stable and therefore not part of this complete drama bomb]). This is my second pale GamKar/DaveKat fic to boot. =) Anyways, I hope this in some way satisfied your request, amaranthinecanicular. If nothing else, I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
